


Roll for Love

by scarvesandjumpers



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dungeons & Dragons, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Human AU, Love at First Sight, M/M, No Dungeons & Dragons Knowledge Required, Other, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:02:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27690031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarvesandjumpers/pseuds/scarvesandjumpers
Summary: Once a week Crowley lets the stress of his boring temp job, the seemingly endless custody battle for his Godson, and the overall mess that is his life fall away, if only for a few hours, as he plays Dungeons and Dragons with his friends. Instead of himself he becomes Temple, a witty and beautiful halfling trickster with a heart of gold. In a game where good always comes out on top and things are, comparatively, simple, it's a welcome escape.But when a new player is introduced to his group on a seemingly long-term basis, Crowley finds himself tangled in a massive crush that makes what was once a carefree escape an admittedly fun, but embarrassing, mess – both for himself and Temple.Well. So much for uncomplicated.–Basically, Crowley and Aziraphale play dnd and fall in love alongside their player characters. No real knowledge of DND necessary, and accompanying artwork TBA. Updates as the muse and mood lets me.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Original Character(s)/Original Character(s), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 40





	1. Cover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just adding the cover! working on the next real chapter. I already have player character summaries and art written, so ill be adding that after aziraphale's PC makes his first appearance :)


	2. Chapter 1

With a heavy, weary huff Temple plopped onto her bedroll and stretched out her legs. Her knees cracked and popped as she settled in, and she let out a little groan as the day's aches finally made themselves known. She tilted her head back and smiled, tired but satisfied, at the late night sky full of stars.

It was a quiet night, beyond the chirps of bugs and nocturnal creatures – and, of course, Meredith, a broad, colorful dwarf and Mellon, a slight, dark-skinned wood elf, bickering over supper as usual. Meredith's short stature rarely contained her loud personality – something Temple adored about the dwarf. Temple tilted her head and watched Mellon, twisting his locs into complicated knots while while she stirred their dinner - some kind of thick, hardy stew.

“Is Mere over seasoning the stew again?”

“Yeah, 'course,” Temple snorted. The halfling shifted to the side to make room for her friend – a massive tiefling with skin the dark color of blood with even darker intricate knot-like tattoos covering their arms. Their long black hair was tangled up in an elaborate series of braids, some threaded around and dangling from their sharp horns, others knotted at the base of their skull. Ro folded their legs, bracing their elbows on their thick thighs and leaning forward. Their eyes were locked on Mellon, and Temple smirked. “Your little forest sprite is gonna lose all of his taste buds at this point,” She sighed airily. She tugged her thick ponytail over her shoulder and fished a wooden comb from her pack, and started the long process of ridding her dark hair of knots.

Ro rolled their eyes, reaching out to bat at Temple's shoulder, easily knocking her over in the process. Temple cackled, pushing back (Ro didn't budge an inch, of course.) “He's hardier than he looks,” they murmured back. Which was true, of course. Temple couldn't even count how many times the nervous little druid had saved her stupid self.

“Course. Wouldn't dream of suggesting otherwise, Ro,” Temple teased. “Your little boytoy is perfect in every anxious, twitchy way, not even a bi-” Ro knocked her onto her side again with a murmur of 'Annoying halfling twat,' and she cut off her own teasing with a loud, unattractive cackle. Still, Ro's cheeks were dark, and a smile threatened to pull at the corners of their lips.

“Fuck, Ro, I'm so happy to be out of that city,” Temple pushed herself back up and flopped back onto her pack, sagging into it as it held her weight. She unlaced her boots with thick, but nimble fingers and huffed, “We can all finally have a bit of time to ourselves. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm just as gung-ho with taking out this cult bullshit, but fuck, it'll be nice to get back to basics a bit. Just us, nature, monsters, and people willing to pay for their slaughter.” She gave Ro a sideways smirk. “And all the time in the world for you to rail your shiny new husband – ow! Okay, okay, fuck off!”

Ro gave her another quick jab for good measure before they finally let up. Temple's laughter trailed off into a happy, self-satisfied hum; she pushed herself back up and crashed their shoulders together. Ro let her be; ah, a win for Temple, ha.

“.... It's not over, though.” Ro shot back. “Any peace is temporary while the cult goes on – not while Malekkai lives.”

Temple's smile faded. “Fuck, Ro. Can't you just let off for even a second? Fucking gloomy bitch.” She sighed heavily, mirroring Ro's posture. A dark expression overtook her mischievous features. They were right, of course. They'd barely made it out of Hevvena alive and in one peace, more chased out than anything else. Turns out people would rather have corrupt leadership than no leadership in some places, and ignorance is bliss.

“.... Think we did enough?” Temple's voice was hushed and hesitant – she didn't want an answer, not really, because she already knew what it would be.

“No.” Ro threaded their fingers together, back ramrod straight. “That city's as good as gone.”

“Fuck.”

Temple could see it already – see the beautiful city and its innocents burning in a storm of necrotic flames, smell the burning flesh and sharp, mint-like bite of magic as the city was leveled in one giant, instant sacrifice. All part of Malekkai's plan. Fucking bastard. So many people – so many _children –_ all gone. Temple felt the familiar urge to hop back onto her feet and backtrack and do everything she could, wear herself down to bones and exhaustion, but knew there was no point.

Can't save everything. This was a win for his lot – but they'd had their fair share of wins as well.

Meredith beckoned Ro and Temple over to the fire, and the two hauled themselves to their feet to join their friends at the fire. Ro sat to Mellon's right, Temple to his left, and Meredith started spooning out steaming bowls of over-seasoned stew.

They'd only just tucked into their meal when a distinct, loud rustling of bushes and an awkward crash, snap, and cry broke through their chatter. The group fell silent for a moment, their hands slowly falling to their respective weapons. Nearby a large cluster of brush shook; Ro and Temple exchanged a glance and hopped to their feet, weapons drawn.

The bush moved again -

–

“.... And that's where Anathema ended it, the twat.”

Crowley leaned back with a grin and squinted at the laptop screen. He watched the pre-teen flail. “No!” Warlock groaned and flopped around on his bed, a pixel blur of dramatic hair and moodiness. “I hate cliffhangers!”

“How'd you think I feel? I'm the closest to whatever-the-fuck was playing peek-a-boo in the bushes, and Temple's at - “ He scrambled around his desk for his Temple binder and flipped it open clumsily when he found it. A few anxious page-turns later and he groaned. “ _Piss_ , Temple's at fifteen hitpoints. Hasn't had a chance to rest yet. Just watch, it'll be a goddamn bunny and it'll maul me and then whoop, there she goes, time to roll a new character.” And he would. If he _really_ had to. He'd been playing with his chubby, spunky halfling lady for two years and was rather attached to her, so he'd only let her go if there was really no way for his comrades to bring her back.

“Nah,” Warlock waved a hand dismissively. “That'd be unfair. Ana's mean but she's not unfair.”

“Maybe she's feeling less _fair_ without her little pet in our group anymore.” Crowley cooed back. His Godson's image was a crunchy pixel mess, but he still saw the colossal eyeroll he gave him. It made him grin.

“When can I play with all of you again?” Warlock asked, miserable. “I can't believe Ro and Mellon got married without me there. Beez and Newt promised they would wait.” Really, he was bordering on _whining,_ but that was alright.

“Yeah, it just kinda happened – if it helps they're not really counting it as their actual wedding. It was all just paperwork.” He made a mental note to only bring up Warlock's disappointment if he _really_ needed something from either Beelzebub or Newt – any guilt he felt was guaranteed to be ten times worse for the two of them.

Warlock huffed. “I miss them. All of them. And I miss playing. I want to come home, Nanny. At least for a visit. When can I come see you?”

Home, for Warlock, was in _England,_ not America – home was a huge, drafty house in the English countryside, or in a spacious, but warm flat in London. Home was with his parents, Crowley supposed, but they were gone. Really, Warlock's home was with his nanny – with _him –_ and he knew that. Warlock knew that, too. Hell, he suspected even Harriet and Tad knew as well back when they were living. It was the only explanation Crowley could come up with for why they'd make him, of all people, Warlock's Godfather.

He was who his parents wanted him to be with if they passed. Warlock's grandparents – specifically on his father's side – disagreed.

“I donno, kid. Depends on your granny.” Was it fair to pin the blame on his grandmother? Probably not. But it was the truth, and Crowley was far from perfect. “You know I'd have you moved back in ages ago if I'd had my way, kiddo.”

“I know,” Warlock sighed. Warlock's shoulders slumped into the bed, and he became a blur of muddy blue and brown pixels on the screen. Crowley wished, not for the first time, that Warlock's stupid fucking grandparents didn't live out in butt-fuck nowhere. He hadn't seen his godson properly in months, and their internet service was basic at best. Barely strong enough for a quick Zoom call – definitely not strong enough to play dungeons and dragons with them long-distance.

The Warlock-shaped blur was motionless for a moment, and Crowley's heart ached for a few beats more. He watched the Warlock-shape sit back up on his elbows, feet kicking behind him as he laid on his belly. “It feels like it's never gonna happen,” He admitted quietly, sounding just as young as he really was, but never wanted to seem. “It feels like I'm never gonna see you again.”

“ _That's_ what's never gonna happen,” Crowley said firmly. He leaned in close, mouth drawn into a thin line. “Never. 'S a dumb thing to think. I'm – I'm working on it, Warlock, I promise. You'll be back home soon.” With Crowley. Where he _belonged._

Whatever answer Warlock had was swallowed by a loud knock on his end of the call, and he let out a staticy little groan. “Grandma's calling me down for dinner.”

“Alright. Better hop to it then before she keels over,” He sighed back. Warlock's cackle, chaotic and a touch evil, brought a warm smile to Crowley's face. “I love you, hellspawn.”

“Love you too, Nanny.”

The call ended with a blip, and Crowley immediately sagged into his desk chair (more of a throne than a chair, but whatever). He ran his hands through his hair, fingers catching knots, and swallowed around the lump that formed in his throat every time he finished a call with his Godson. He missed him. Fuck, he missed him so much.

It had been several months since Harriet and Tad passed away – a genuine accident, head on impact in their cushy limo on the way home from a breakfast meeting with some important so-and-so who'd already been deemed uninvolved. They'd died instantly, painlessly. Warlock had been upset, of course; distant though his parents were, he did love them, and was at the very least used to their presence in his life. But after they'd found out Crowley had been named his Godfather they'd made the best out of a sad situation; he'd moved them deeper into the city in the flat Crowley inherited from a long-dead uncle, a place he mostly kept for storage and somewhere to crash when he had days off from his full-time job as Warlock's nanny. They'd made it a little home for the two of them, set up the spare bedroom for Warlock – it was perfect.

Until the funeral service.

Warlock's granny decided that, no, respecting the wishes of Warlock's deceased parents wasn't what they should do. She'd made a scene, right there at the wake, and Warlock had been torn away from him and his home, all against his wishes. Tad's parent barely knew Warlock beyond a few shared Christmases and annual birthday cards, but they felt a strange sort of ownership over the boy – something their son shared, in his own weird Straight White Male Father of a Son kind of way. There was little Crowley could do but call a lawyer and yell; it was a messy case, messier still since there was red tape from two different countries to deal with. It was a long, tiring process, but it would be worth it when Warlock got to come home.

And he _would_ get to come home. His lawyer thought he had a strong case. A decent chance for full custody. Crowley clung to that. It was all he could do, really, while people much smarter than him did the busy work behind the scenes, and nothing grated on him more than an inability to actually _do_ something himself. He felt twitchy and restless when he thought about it too much, but of course it was all he could think about.

A chirp from Crowley's phone pulled his attention from his wallowing, and he grunted questioningly as he scanned the screen. The text had been sent to his D&D group chat (Currently named _**Fuck Cults and Cliffhangers**_ ). It mostly consisted of memes (Crowley, Beez, and, when he wasn't being so closely monitored by his grandparents, Warlock), bickering about snacks (Tracy and Newt), or who would host and when (All of them, save for Newt; he and Anathema lived together and she handled the rest of the group's nonsense better than he ever could).

_**Anathema** _

_Just a heads up – guest player at our next few sessions. Four, five tops. He's an old friend of mine._

“Oh, piss off,” Crowley groaned. He couldn't _stand_ Anathema's 'old friends', himself included. They were usually gloomy, pasty, witchy weirdos with names like Starchild or Sunshine Spring or Corpse-piss or some bullshit like that, and rarely could they take a joke. As far as Crowley was concerned Anathema was the only fun witch on the planet. And her name, at least, was _cool._ He stabbed at the keyboard on his phone and shot off a quick response.

_**Crowley** _

_Shame. Planning to be sick that day._

_**Newt** _

_We don't have a day picked out yet?_

_**Crowley** _

_Whatever day, doesn't matter, I'm flexible._

_**Beelzebub** _

_Fuck you, Anathema. Has he ever played before, at least? Because if not he's not sitting by me._

_**Anathema** _

_Not.... exactly, no. But it won't be too painful. Trust me._

As the chat flooded with whining and groaning that would put even Warlock's teenage dramatics to shame, Crowley groaned again even _louder_ for an audience of one; himself. Fuck, he hadn't even _considered_ that. The last thing he wanted for one of his few untainted escapes from the bullshit that was his boring 9-to-5 temp job and the misery that was working through the American and UK legal system was playing babysitter to a grown man who'd never so much as touched a die with more than 6 sides. He locked his phone and shoved it into his pocket, then hauled himself up from his throne to head for the kitchen to make some coffee, not interested in seeing what Anathema had to say without something to fuel his rage. It was far, far too early for this shit, and he'd been up even earlier for his bi-weekly Zoom call with Warlock.

But really, though, he loved it. He doubted an inexperienced newbie player would be enough to scare him off. He knew it wouldn't, and he knew none of them would _really_ skip their sessions just because of a new player. The worst part was that Anathema knew that, too. The bitch.

He'd been playing dungeons and dragons for years – dabbled a bit when he was in secondary, but really fell in love with it during his brief stint in university. He'd become fast friends with Beelzebub – both of them being moody, dramatic loaners with poor people skills, rejected birthnames, and a penchant for wearing black – and introduced them to the concept and its rules and potential after a late night filled with bitching about their joint boredom. The two of them had played with a few groups off and on until they'd dropped out (together, with maniacal, somewhat-frantic smiles on their faces), and settled with their current group permanently after meeting Anathema and her longtime mess of a boyfriend, Newt. Tracy, Newt's aunt and a veteran player, had been playing with Newt and Anathema for years; the five had met up and the rest was history.

Crowley had been working for the Dowlings for a few years when they all met; he'd cobbled together his handful of fine arts, child psychology, and education credits (everything sans-degree, of course) into something of a respectable resume and, if you asked him, more or less charmed his way into a job he was _officially_ under-qualified for, _unofficially_ perfect for. He'd adored Warlock the moment he saw him – love at first sight.

Sure, Nannying hadn't exactly been his dream job. He'd always liked kids well enough and figured he'd end up in some sort of educational field out of convenience rather than passion. Passion was saved for astronomy, passion was saved for horticulture, hell, passion was saved for D&D. But he'd found passion in taking care of Warlock, in child-rearing and guidance. He'd found love in it, in Warlock's mischievous smile and maniacal giggle and taste for fun and games.

And Warlock _loved_ games. He loved being creative and playing pretend and making a spectacle of himself. He'd taught Warlock (and all of his little rich-kid friends) how to play bite-sized versions of dungeons & dragons and other tabletop games when they were young, and with Anathema's blessing had been allowed to join his first campaign with his Nanny's weird and wonderful friends earlier that year. They adored him, and Warlock's broody little cleric Maven fit right in. They all missed Warlock's insatiable enthusiasm at the table, the lot of them hopped up on sugary drinks and even more sugary snacks. The six of them could be louder than elephants at an orgy when the mood struck them, laughter and arguing and teasing and thrown food abound.

The coffee maker dripped its brown elixir of life as Crowley leaned against the counter in his kitchen. Crowley's phone was an endless avalanche of vibration and chirps in his pocket, but he waited till his breakfast had been made – mostly sugar with a hint of coffee and a single slice of unbuttered toast – before he looked into the damage. After skipping pages and pages of bitching and whining, he caught up to the current conversation.

_**Beelzebub** _

_Satan's sake, Anathema!_

_**Anathema** _

_No, listen, it's going to be_ fine. _Great, even. He doesn't have first hand experience, but he has lots of practical knowledge. He's read all the books Newt and I own cover to cover. He even made his own character sheet, all on his own, perfect. First try._

_**Tracy** _

_Goodness. It usually even takes me a few tries, luvs, and I've been playing since before the lot of you were even thought of._

_**Tracy** _

_How old is this friend of yours, by the way? ;-)_

Crowley snorted, shaking his head fondly. Tracy was a notorious flirt, which her husband, a grizzled old lump of a man named Shadwell, both hated and adored. She loved winding him up, and she couldn't help that the only way she could physically blink was by batting her falsies at the nearest fit man.

_**Crowley** _

_Down, girl._

_**Tracy** _

_Oh, you hush! Bit of harmless flirting never killed anyone. I'll bring some extra dice for him, Annie darling. I think it'll be marvelous to have a bit of shiny new in our group, we've certainly been lacking it recently. How is our Warlock, Crowley dear?_

Crowley's smile turned tight. Sorrow wrapped its fingers around his gut and squeezed.

_**Crowley** _

_He's as fine as he can be. Sends his love to everyone but Beez and Newt because you two went and got married without Maven._

_**Newt** _

_:-(_

_**Beelzebub** _

_He'll get over it._

Anathema, however, couldn't be distracted – a trait that made her a notorious buzzkill, but excellent Dungeon Master.

_**Anathema** _

_Look. My friend? He's a good guy. He's going through a rough patch. I promised him Newt and I would let him play with us if we ever got the chance. We've got the chance. He's playing. End of discussion._

After just a bit more bitching from various avenues, the group settled into a reluctant acceptance, and Anathema returned to her usual position of group chat lurker rather than participant, as she was wont to do. Crowley resigned himself to a few uneventful, boring sessions ahead of them and, after a quick shower and artful tussling of his hair, left his flat to start his day.


	3. Chapter 2

In the warm, dusty, sunkissed bookshop that he called home, Aziraphale Fell was perched primly by his phone. Aziraphale's fingers tangled even tighter into the curled length of phone chord as he quietly fretted into the speaker. His eyes were on the carefully arranged leather binder (with a matching fountain pen, of course, for note-taking) and the little clear plastic box on top of it. “And you're _quite certain_ I don't need to bring anything else? I am a guest, after all.”

Anathema's sigh crackled over the phone, fond, but exasperated. “No, Aziraphale. Beez is hosting, so they'll be providing the food. All you have to bring is the binder we made, the dice we picked out, and yourself. _Maybe_ something to drink, too, because Beez never gets enough drinks for everyone and they probably won't have anything you'd like, anyways.”

Aziraphale perked up. “Oh – perhaps a nice Merlot? I have a few bottles I could bring that might pair well with crisps and popcorn and – well I suppose I could put together a little cheese board to share - “

“I mean, I guess? It's usually a cheap beer and soda kind of vibe when we play at Beez's house, but I wouldn't say no to a charcuterie board and a good Merlot. Bit fancy for D&D night, but still.”

Aziraphale's heart sank. Good Lord, he hadn't even /tried/ yet and he was already mucking things up. “If you don't think I should - “

“ _No,_ Aziraphale, no. Stop. Shush.” Anathema's tone was warm but firm, and he fell silent. He felt a nervous little ball of fear in his belly, and his fingers twisted tighter around the phone chord as she went on. “If you want to bring fancy wine and cheese and crackers, by all means, bring it. If that'll make it more fun for you, do it. That's what this is supposed to be for, okay? It's supposed to be _fun._ And it will be.”

“Sure of that, are you?”

“Yes.” Her tone was matter-of-fact and expectant and just a touch challenging, and Aziraphale laughed despite himself – she'd _make him_ have fun, or so help all of them. “It's gonna be great. You'll sit next to me so I can help you if you need it, and you'll get to play grown up pretend with rules and get out of that damn bookshop for a few hours and probably get a drunk sugar rush from all of the snacks and you'll have a _blast._ Got it?”

Aziraphale shook his head fondly, smiling into the cradle of the phone. It was times like these that he was especially grateful for a friend like Anathema. “Yes, Miss Device. As you say, so it shall be.”

“Damn right. Newt'll come get you at around five-ish and we'll all head over to Beez's place around six, okay?”

“Alright. I – I _am_ looking forward to it, my dear. It's just – new people, new experiences, all that. It's a bit..... intimidating. I'm out of practice with being around people.”

“It's fine. I get it. It's not your fault – you haven't had many chances to get out recently.” There was poison in her tone, but he let it roll off of him. He knew who the poison was for, and it wasn't him. “I'll see you tonight.”

“Till then, my dear. Pip-pip.”

The phone clicked off, and Aziraphale let out a shaky little sigh and set about untangling his fingers from the phone cord. The shop was quiet, save for his own soft sounds. It was almost oppressive, that quiet. Once his hands were free he scurried to his gramophone and put on some music – anything to fill the quiet, since he was alone. Obviously another _person_ wouldn't do that.

He missed Gabriel at the strangest times.

He caught sight of himself in an old gilded mirror on his wall and scoffed at his absolutely _miserable_ expression. “Oh – buck up, young man. That is _quite_ enough of that.” Aziraphale straightened his waistcoat and bowtie, lips drawn into a thin line of determination. “No need for such dramatics. You're going to have a lovely time, make some new friends, _socialize_ , for God's sake, and it's going to be _fine._ ” And, after the routine preparation of hot cooca (with marshmallows, of course), Aziraphale marched himself over to his desk, plopped down into his chair, flipped open the supple leather binder he and Anathema had put together the day prior, and set about rereading his neatly filled character sheet one last time.

Aziraphale had always been something of a loner. He much preferred the company of his books and journals over other children growing up. He'd been friendly enough with his schoolmates, well liked when one mentioned him by name, but he couldn't really say he'd had any proper _friends_ until well into his adulthood. And that was fine by him; he knew he was of an odd stock. Stuffy and prissy and a bit old fashioned with a taste for a quiet night in over a wild night out. It wasn't until well past his younger years – right in the prime of his adulthood, in fact - that he realized just how terribly lonely he'd set himself up to be. He'd latched onto any companionship offered, and often got his heart hurt for the effort, save for a few grateful exceptions. The greatest exceptions being Anathema Device and Gabriel Arch, two wildly different exceptions that fulfilled two wildly different needs for him.

In Anathema he had a friend, a _good_ friend, despite their difference in age. She'd wound up in England without much by way of friends beyond her then long-distance, long-time boyfriend, sensed his loneliness, and more or less bullied herself into his heart. She was young and feisty and creative, loyal to a fault, and he adored her tenacity and drive. They could spend hours together pouring over old theological texts, philosophizing about religion and politics and vintage fashion, and most importantly she was _never_ bored with him. She was creative and lively and when he expressed curiosity over hers and her boyfriends strange little game of dice, math, and pretend, she'd absolutely enchanted him with her stories of previous campaigns, of the fun she'd had with it, and with the _books._ He'd never met anyone with the same sort of appreciation for the written word as himself, but Anathema was the closest.

He felt like he'd known her all his life at times, but of course he hadn't. They'd only been friends for a few years. He'd known Gabriel longer than Anathema, and far more intimately. They'd more or less fallen into their relationship, and in retrospect Aziraphale didn't really understand why. But he'd been there, been a consistent presence in his life, in his home, and in his bed, when Gabriel had felt so inclined (and had a good enough combination of both liquor and pity for Aziraphale to bother touching him). He didn't miss Gabriel, not _really._ But he did miss the company. He wondered if Anathema's friends would let him host next time they wanted to play.

 _If_ they let him play with them again. The thought had hardly left his mind before he caught himself worrying his fingers again, pads of his fingers pink from the pressure – a bad habit that occasionally led to fingers rubbed raw and painful, one he was trying to quit. He laced his fingers together instead and squeezed, then leaned in to give the character sheet he was studying the proper attention it deserved. “Oh, dear, Kurt. I do hope they like you.”

–

“Okay. So. This is Beez's place.”

“It's – ah – very.... rustic?”

Anathema snorted and hiked her massive messenger bag higher up on her shoulder; her arms were filled with a blue-tinged macbook and its cords, bluetooth speakers, and two thick, post-it note filled, glossy books. The messenger bag, Aziraphale had been informed, held the maps, a whiteboard, miniatures, her DM screen, and other such sundries. “That's putting it mildly.” She peered up at the crumbling brick building looming over them, at the broken windows patched with gaffer tape and cardboard, and waved him towards the stoop. “It's nicer inside. Kind of. Newt, honey, can you get the - “

“Right! Yes, got it.” Newt, juggling a binder, a _massive_ bag filled with the plastic rattle of dice, and Aziraphale's little wicker basket, scrambled up the stoop and mashed his thumb on the appropriate call button, a crackling, high-pitched _bzzzzz_ leaving Aziraphale feeling somewhat dizzy. A minute later a sharp voice hissed, “Alright, alright, keep your shirt on,” over the intercom, and the front door popped open. The three hurried inside, and Aziraphale clutched at his leather binder tighter, swallowing thickly.

“So Beelzebub – yes, that _is_ their name, just go with it - is kind of rough around the edges, but they're not so bad after they get to know you a bit,” Anathema was saying as they walked past the lift with a hand-written sign that read 'busted, don't bother' taped to it and made for the stairs. “They-them pronouns only. Bugs don't bug you, right? Well – either way, if they ask if you wanna see their 'flatmates', say no.”

“Bugs?” Aziraphale repeated weakly.

“Yeah, bugs. Anyways. You've heard tons about Tracy -”

“Newton's aunt, correct?”

“Yeah,” Newt chimed in, a boyish grin on his face. “She'll like you. If your bloke gets picked on too much, give her a look and she'll have Meredith get them to back off. She's really good with new players.”

“She's been playing for, like, thirty years,” Anathema sighed. The stairs were _still_ going. They'd only climbed two flights and Newt already looked as winded as Aziraphale felt. Anathema, of course, looked barely affected. “I've learned a lot from her. She's an amazing player. If you get stuck and I can't help you, for whatever reason, she's your gal. And then there's Crowley.”

There was a burst of laughter behind them, and a voice like sleek leather and cigarette smoke coiled its way up from the flight of stairs below them. “He's sexy and clever and everyone wants to marry him.”

“Crowley! You just get here?” Anathema called down. Aziraphale peered over the staircase, eyes bright and curious to spot the owner of the new voice. Anathema, Newt, and Aziraphale paused at the next landing and listened to the patter of boots on the staircase as Crowley climbed to meet them. As he answered her his voice rounded the corner, closer.

“Nah, been here for a bit, forgot my dice in the bentley. Is that your friend I heard?” There was a huff of 'fucking stairs', before the newcomer came into view. He was tall and thin, scrawny in some places, with a riot of wavy red hair piled into a messy little bun at the back of his head. He was dressed casually in all black (Aziraphale tugged at his vintage coat and pushed back against the thought of 'Oh God, I'm very overdressed') with a pair of sleek, mirror-like black sunglasses perched on a sharp nose. In his black-tipped fingers he clutched a slick reflective red box. He tilted his head upward at the trio, mouth drawn into a _devilish_ little grin -

\- then promptly slipped on the next step and went toppling forward, face-first, into the cold concrete staircase with a squawk of “ _SHIT_ -”

Aziraphale, being the closest, reacted first. “Oh! Oh, are you quite alright, my dear boy?” He tucked his journal under his arm and reached for him, knees popping as he bent to help him up. Crowley didn't appear too badly harmed, though somewhat dazed; his face was flushed pink as Aziraphale helped him steady onto his feet.

“Ngk. Yuh. Yeah. Good. Fine.” He ducked his head, cheeks still pink, and dusted himself off, box still clutched in his hand. It rattled as it shook, and Aziraphale felt an unusual rush of warmth for the other man. “Just – you know. Slick floor. Slippery shoes. Place is a shithole. Etcetera. Watch your step. 'M fine, though.” He glanced up at Aziraphale, who gave him a warm smile, and returned it with a tight one of his own.

“Well. Thank goodness for small miracles, yes?” Aziraphale's smile broadened, and he held out his hand. “I'm Aziraphale. I'll be playing with you for a while, if that's alright. I'm _quite_ excited.”

“Er – yeah. Course. Course it's fine. I'm Anthony Crowley – Just Crowley, really.” He took his hand and gave it a quick pump. His hand was unexpectedly soft, and his touch buzzed up through Aziraphale's fingers, climbing up his wrist to his arm and shoulder, almost like an electric shock. Crowley, it seemed, felt something similar, as he quickly yanked his hand back. “Bhh. Erm. Yeah. It'll be fun. Let's head up before Beez throws a fit, yeah?” He pushed himself past Aziraphale, eyes lowered, and the other man felt a strangely crushing disappointment, like he'd taken a wrong step somewhere and scared him off.

“Oh. Yes, of course. Lovely to meet you.” Anathema and Newt watched Crowley as he brushed past them and muttered something back, expression curious. Newt shrugged and made to follow; Anathema frowned to herself, but hooked her arm through Aziraphale's. “Huh. That was.... weird. Come on, let's go.”

–

Everyone was curious about him, it seemed, for better or worse. Beelzebub's first words to Aziraphale were a blunt, accusatory statement of, “You seem posh. Big Margaret Thatcher fan?” To which Anathema immediately smacked at the back of their messy nest of frizzy black hair. After assuring them that he most certainly was _not_ , Beelzebub shrugged their shoulders at him in apparent acceptance and jabbed a paint-chipped thumb towards the coat closet for his things. “Shoes off house.” Tracy gave him a warm welcome and a loud kiss to each cheek. As he wiped the bright pink lipstick from his cheeks she batted dramatic lashes at him and welcomed him to the party with a sly little wink that left him confusingly flustered. This, it seemed, was the intended effect, because immediately after his mortified expression broke through his polite façade she giggled playfully, all pretense of flirtation gone, and gave his arm a fond pat. “You're gonna be a fun one, I can tell.”

Crowley was something of a mystery. He'd made it into the flat before any of them despite being only a few steps ahead of them and, after Beelzebub's blunt introduction, stole them away to their cramped kitchen, effectively hiding from sight.

Beelzebub's flat was cramped and filled to the brim with shelf upon shelf of taxidermy animals and insects and the occasional modern art piece. There were also _many_ cages and terrariums filled with insects and arachnids big and small, each with their own discrete feeding stations and spaces. In the kitchen was the largest terrarium; nearly floor-to-ceiling, and filled with different kinds of flies, of all things. There was a cheap little desk set up next to it with a spindly computer chair and an old Dell laptop set up, and piled next to it were countless books, presumably about the flies themselves. They seemed very well cared for, even somewhat at the expense of the rest of the flat, which was either cluttered or spartan in purpose.

(Beelzebub, Anathema explained, was a scientist. Sort of. Really, they were independently studying their interest of choice, which was entomology. Hence the bugs – the many, many bugs.)

The next thirty minutes passed in a blur. Loud, friendly chatter filled the flat as they all mingled while Anathema set up the kitchen table for their game. Snacks and drinks aplenty were offered, and Tracy was delighted by the home-made charcuterie board Aziraphale had put together for them.

Aziraphale caught himself smiling without realizing it; he'd forgotten how nice it was to talk to people.

–

As the six of them settled in at the crowded kitchen table, lights dimmed and speakers playing quiet ambient music, Crowley once again thanked God Or Whatever for sunglasses, because there was absolutely _no way_ Crowley would be able to look at anything other than the absolute _spectacle_ that was seated across from him.

It was instant, and it was unfair, and it was _glorious and terrible and the worst._ Crowley had been minding his own bloody business when he was climbing those stairs, wasn't looking to find the most beautiful man he'd ever seen in his life at the top of them. He'd, naturally, lost all control over his body and made an utter _tit_ of himself.

It had taken all of his self control to keep from slamming the flat door shut when he'd hurried past them. He'd yanked Beez into the kitchen as soon as they were free because _fuck fuck fuck Beez he's fucking gorgeous what am I gonna do?_

Beelzebub, in typical Beelzebub fashion, had fondly called him an embarrassing queer mess, then promptly abandoned him to kind of sort of play host.

Aziraphale, at Anathema's prompting, flipped open his little leather-bound binder and the little box of dice he'd brought with him. Tracy complimented his dice set, and he gave a pleased little wiggle, and Crowley was in _agony._

Anathema suddenly cleared her throat, and the party went quiet like a group of rambunctious children in a library being scolded by a librarian. Anathema had always had that power, in and out of play. She could fill a room with a word, or even none, make a void around her with presence and posture. Her lips quirked into a smug little smile. She cleared her throat once, gave each of them a nod, and said, “Let's begin.

“When we last left off, the Party had just left behind the town of Hevvena, located in the Gate province.....”

–

Temple shifted her socked feet to ground herself in place, dirt shifting around her toes, and cursed her own shortsightedness (damn cities, and damn _her_ for getting used to sleeping without fucking shoes on). Ro's massive battleaxe was manifested as well, covered in furs and dried blood because Ro was gross like that; Mellon had scrambled to his feet and was already clutching the pan flute around his neck, though Temple doubted he had any spells prepared after the long day they'd had. Meredith had the cast-iron pan in her bare hand, unbothered by the burn of the metal and ready to strike. They all held their breath, watching the shifting bushes.....

…. When a shiny human-shaped ball of flailing limbs and fluffy furs tumbled from the bushes and landed, face-first, in the dirt.

It was a man. A human man. He looked tall and pale, and was dressed in scuffed up, pale gold platemail and had a long fur cloak that was quite spectacularly tangled in the bushes around him. He pushed himself onto his hands and knees and looked up in surprise at the five viciously armed and _very displeased_ looking adventurers around him, and his eyes bulged. “Oh. Oh, dear.” He was handsome, if a bit plain, with sandy blonde hair and tired, bagged, stormy gray eyes. His septum and lower lip were pierced with thick gold rings, and two bell-shaped charms dangled from his ears. He visibly swallowed. “H. Hello?”

“Who are you?” Ro jabbed the pommel of their battleaxe at the stranger in warning. “What do you want with us?”

“Nothing!” The man was quick to say. “Nothing, I promise! I just – I was walking through the forest, you see, and I saw the smoke from the fire and thought there might be a settlement in this direction. Then I realized it was just you and your – ah – companions camping, so I made to make myself scarce, but I'm afraid I got rather.... tangled.... up....” He trailed off, visibly relaxing as Ro lowered their battleaxe, seemingly unthreatened by him and his distress. Temple followed suit – Ro was rarely wrong about these things.

Apparently spared, if only for the moment, the man scrambled to his feet. He was _tall_ , very tall, almost rivaling Ro in height, and had a massive greatsword strapped to his hip. The sheathed tip only _nearly_ dragged in the dirt when he stood. “Fuck, mate, think you're tall enough?” She quipped, brow cocked. Behind her Meredith set about spooning up their guest a bowl of stew and was already inviting him to warm himself by the fire.

The stranger blinked at her. After a few seconds he broke out into a confused little smile. “I think so,” he replied, though it sounded more like a question than an answer. Temple snorted and shook her head. She watched him graciously thank Meredith for the stew and let himself be herded to the fire. He sat to her right and began to scarf down his food at a ravenous pace, barely blinking at the oversalted slop he was served.

He finished his bowl faster before the rest of them worked up the nerve to try theirs, and Meredith happily spooned him out seconds without his asking. “What's your name, dearie?” She asked. “What in the name of the three planes are you _doing_ traveling by yourself at this time of night? That's just asking for trouble, that is.” She huffed disapprovingly, her magenta mustache fluffing up indignantly at the mere thought.

“Oh – I haven't introduced myself, how rude.” He shook his head, frowning. “I'm – well, I'm not _entirely_ sure about this, but I _believe_ I'm called Kurt Eastchild. It's all a bit fuzzy, really. But I'm heading for a city called Metetron, and I was told it's in this direction?”

The party exchanged a startled look, and Mellon gently replied, “Er...... No? Metetron is in the Host province. That's clear on the other side of the country.” Kurt blinked blankly. “That's.... in the opposite direction that you're going. Whoever you got your directions from was wrong. Or lying.” Probably lying. _Probably_ waiting for the clueless man deeper in the forest waiting to jump him and take his shit, honestly. It's what Temple would have done back in her younger days.

“Gods _damn_ me,” Kurt huffed. He scrubbed a frustrated hand through his sandy blonde hair; the warm firelight made it almost amber-colored and highlighted the anguished expression on the human's face. Temple felt a stab of pity for the man.

“What, exactly, are you going to Metetron for?” Temple squinted at him, looking him over. He didn't _look_ like a holy man, and all they had in Metetron was temples and archives and way too many ghosts.

“I'm – I'm not sure, to be perfectly honest,” he smiled sheepishly. “It's.... rather hard to explain, but. I'm compelled to reach my destination as soon as I possibly can. Though,” he sighed, peering up at the starry sky above them, and tugged his fur cloak tighter around his shoulders, “It seem like that will probably take longer than I originally planned....”

The four of them exchanged loaded glances, and Mellon and Ro had a whole conversation in simple looks while Kurt stirred absently at his stew. Ro gave Temple a look, brow cocked. Should we? They seemed to ask.

After all, they were heading that direction anyways. And wasn't that suspicious.

Temple looked over the man next to her, frowning. If he was a spy, he wasn't a very intimidating one, which she supposed was the point. If he _was_ working with the Flock, though, there was four of them and one of him. And what was it that they said?

Keep your friends close.... and your enemies closer.

“D'you know, Kurt,” Temple gave him a slow smile, and tossed her long, dark hair over her shoulder. “.... We're actually headed that way ourselves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crowley is a fuckin mess amirite lads

**Author's Note:**

> So im kinda winging this. Basically it's going to be joint stories - the main one being whats going on for the Gomens crew, with a kind of b-plot following their dnd party? to show the developing relationship between aziraphale and crowley along with their PCs. idk man this is gonna be a hot mess but im gonna enjoy every second of it so big shrug. if requested i can add an additional chapter with just a brief rundown of everyones characters so people can keep track of who is playing who, and im also working on cover art and designs for everyones PCs so! more to come, but not just writing.  
> comments are love and fuel me!


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